


Boys Don't Cry

by bnsolo



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: (but seriously tho he is and you can prise that from my cold dead hands), (i literally wrote this just to write that last tag), Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Neglect, Coming Out, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Slurs, bev is supportive, f-slur, q-slur, richie is jealous, stan is a thot ass ho, stozier ft. richie's terrible home life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-07 15:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12236094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bnsolo/pseuds/bnsolo
Summary: "For one blissful hour every day, Richie was allowed to do nothing but stare at Stan, at his dark curls flopping into his eyes as he bent over his work, the pale curve of his neck, his collarbones just peeking out of the collar of his shirt, biting his lip as he tackled a particularly tricky question...yeah, Richie was already gone. Done for. Bye, everyone, see you when the bell rings.Wait a second. Wait a fucking second.What was that on Stan’s neck?"Or, Stan has love bites and Richie is a jealous pining mess.





	1. Boys Don't Cry

**Author's Note:**

> there's a dismal lack of richie/stan (stichie? stozier? idk) so here you go  
> this is the most overused plot in the history of overused-ness but you didn't come here for originality, right?  
> this is more angsty than the description makes it sound and it's gonna get worse so don't say i didn't warn you  
> enjoy!  
> p.s. i made the playlist i listened to while writing this public in case anyone wanted some stozier songs to listen to while reading: https://open.spotify.com/user/frankie.stein722/playlist/0VSYso8JikBvB5kcLaDA8e

It was that time of day again. Every year, without fail, Richie Tozier has had only one class with Stan Uris. In 6th grade it was Science, in 7th it was History, 8th was Geography, 9th...well, he didn’t really remember, he may have been distracted that year. Now they were starting their Junior year of high school, and the class this year was AP Chem, of all things; the only AP class Richie took. He wasn’t as bad at Chem as his other subjects – for some reason, he could actually concentrate in that class, the facts and figures didn’t go in one ear and out the other like with everything else. This year, though, he knew that streak of concentration was gonna slip, big time. With Stan sat in front of him and to his left, perfectly in his line of vision, Richie wasn’t going to hear a word his teacher said all year. For one blissful hour every day, Richie was allowed to do nothing but stare at Stan, at his dark curls flopping into his eyes as he bent over his work, the pale curve of his neck, his collarbones just peeking out of the collar of his shirt, biting his lip as he tackled a particularly tricky question...yeah, Richie was already gone. Done for. Bye, everyone, see you when the bell rings.

Wait a second. _Wait a fucking second._

What was that on Stan’s neck?

Richie’s heart sank as his eyes focused on the faint, but very definitely there, purple marks that were revealed for a second as Stan leant back in his chair, his collar slipping down his neck. _Oh God. Oh my fucking God._ _Who gave him those? I can’t – that’s – that’s really fucking hot – Jesus Christ, Tozier pull yourself together!_

Richie boggled at Stan all through class, his reverie ruined by the revelation that while he hadn’t been looking, Stan had got with someone else. Of course, Richie shouldn’t have been surprised, it was inevitable really. His dream, the dream he’d been holding onto since he was thirteen, that one day Stan would turn around and tell Richie he was all he’d ever wanted and they’d get together and live happily ever after – was total bullshit. Richie knew this. He knew Stan barely tolerated him as a friend, let alone something more, he knew that eventually the rest of the world would wake up and realise how cute Stan was, he knew Stan was probably straight anyway and even if he wasn’t there were a thousand other boys in the world way hotter and way less irritating than Richie… He knew all this, but it still hurt like a bitch to have it finally confirmed, set out in black and white.

When they all sat down for lunch, Bev knew immediately that something was up. Richie was silent, which threw off the group dynamic so badly that the conversation wilted after a few seconds and the Losers were left staring awkwardly at each other or at their trays in stilted silence. Richie picked at his food listlessly, which was also pretty weird considering Bev had never known Richie not to eat his food and then steal everyone else’s for good measure.

“What’s up, trashmouth? You sick or something?” Richie looked up into Bev’s questioning, raised-eyebrows gaze.

“I’m fine, what are you talking about?”

“More like what are you not talking about.”

“Maybe I just don’t wanna talk to you idiots, you ever think about that? You treat me like some kind of performing monkey. My jokes are art, they can’t just be turned on and off like a tap.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Highness, it’s just I don’t remember the last time I hung out with you guys without your disgusting jibber-jabber going on in the background like white noise. It’s kinda freaking me out.”

“I’m fine, okay?” Richie snapped a little, which he could see surprised Bev more than his silence. Her teasing smile slipped from her lips and was replaced with sisterly concern, which was almost worse.

“Richie, are you sure -”

“Oh my God! Stan, those are so disgusting -”

“ _Shut up Eddie!”_

Both Bev and Richie’s heads swung round to the other end of the table. “What’s so disgusting?” Bev asked with wicked intent, as Stan turned red.

“Stan’s got love bites, like, all over his neck – I can’t believe you, why would you let someone do that to you -” Eddie shook his head violently as Bev began to laugh. Richie adjusted his glasses uncomfortably and glanced away, willing Bev to drop it, though he knew she wouldn’t.

“God, you guys, just leave it,” Stan huffed, pulling his collar up.

“No way, I want details,” Bev crowed, leaning over the table. “Who is it? Who in this crappy little town could possibly have turned the head of Stan Uris?”

“No-one you know, Bev,” Stan said firmly.

“Aw, don’t be a spoilsport. We wanna know anyway, don’t we Richie?”

_No. No, we really don’t._

“Yeah, tell us Stan,” Richie said with a touch of weariness, resigning himself to the torture. “It is a girl? Guy? Sock-puppet?”

“Like I’d tell you, trashmouth. It’d be spray-painted on a billboard before school ends,” Stan scoffed.

“Okay, that definitely means it’s someone gross,” Richie said, digging himself in further with every word.

“Can’t be grosser than you,” Stan shot back. Richie felt the air go out of him. The comeback was lame, like all Stan’s comebacks, but it hit a little to close to home. Richie dug his nails into his palms under the table in an effort to control himself, but felt tears prick at his eyes all the same. He had to get out of there.

“I’m not hungry. I’ll see you guys around.” With that, he left the table, abandoning his tray, and headed for the door.

“Wait,” Stan called after him, “Where are you going? You can’t just skip out.” Richie half turned, plastering a grin over face to hide the hurt that lanced through him at the sound of Stan’s voice.

“Sure I can. Who’s gonna notice? Well, maybe Ms. Kominsky’ll miss me, but you can take care of her for me, can’t you Stan?” He blew a mocking kiss to the Losers and turned away.

The Barrens were shaded in orange and brown and grey, weak autumn sunlight leaking through the widening gaps in the dying leaves. Richie abandoned his bike and splashed through the shallow water, ignoring the freezing cold that seeped through his sneakers, and thought about walking into the sewers and never coming out again. His parents wouldn’t notice, probably. His teachers would rejoice. Bill, Eddie, Ben, Bev and Mike might be a little upset, but Stan would have a party.

He didn’t know how long he sat on that rock, how long he let hot tears sting his cold cheeks, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses. Minutes, maybe. More likely hours. That sick, hollow feeling didn’t go away no matter how long he sat there, watching the shadows lengthen. It didn’t matter who it was, who was kissing Stan instead of him, and doing God knows what else besides. In his imagination, this other person was blank-faced and genderless, but it didn’t make the torment any less bearable, or the situations Richie was imagining any less graphic. God, he wanted to die. Richie loved Stan. He’d never in a million fucking years admit it, but he knew it was true. That’s why it hurt so much, right? Because he loved him. He loved him, and he could never, never have him.

“Richie?”

He turned, wiping the tears away hurriedly. Through blurry vision he could just make out a mop of red hair. Beverly.

“Hey, Bev, you’re skipping too? Maybe we should stage a school walkout. That’ll teach ‘em. I don’t know what, but it’ll teach ‘em.”

Beverly sat down next to him on the rock, facing him with her serious gaze. “Shut up and tell me what’s wrong with you.”

“Well, Bev, honestly – and I feel weird admitting this too you, but if you really want me to tell you - I’m going through a bit of a dry spell at the moment. Seriously, no sex at all. I know it’s hard to believe, but I really think it’s starting to affect me -”

Bev shoved him, harder than playfully, but not so hard it really hurt. He lost his balance all the same, banging his shoulder on the stone.

“I swear to God, Richie Tozier, if the next words out of your mouth aren’t serious, I’ll never speak to you again.”

Richie straightened up, rubbing his shoulder. “What do you want me to say, Bev?”

“You like Stan. Admit it.”

“Sure, I like Stan the Man. Not much of a one for appreciating my cutting-edge wit, but -”

“ _Richie._ You know what I fucking mean.”

Richie sat silently for a second, staring at his hands. Bev waited. Admitting out loud his feelings for Stan, even just to Bev, had Richie’s stomach in knots – he couldn’t do it, but _God_ , he wanted someone else to know. He wanted to _talk_ to someone. Keeping it all inside, not just Stan but _everything,_ had gotten so hard lately. No matter how much he pushed it down, Richie could feel it coming up, spilling out of his mouth, choking him. He couldn’t do it any more.

“Okay. Fine. I like him. What’s the big deal? I like him, so what.” The words came out in a shaky rush, but the tension in Richie’s chest eased. He knotted his fingers together anxiously in his lap as he waited for Bev’s response.

“So...it really must have sucked, back there. I’m sorry.”

“What for? You’re not the one he’s been...who gave him the… Are you?”

Bev sniggered. “I don’t think I’m Stan’s type.”

“You don’t know who it is, do you?”

“I think if it was serious, Stan would tell us himself.”

“Doesn’t matter how _serious_ it is. I don’t care if he doesn’t know their name or if they’re engaged to be fucking married, it hurts...” He took a deep breath. “It feels the same. Shitty.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Thought about telling him?”

The bitter bark of laughter burst from Richie as if forced. “I hope that’s a joke.”

“I’m serious. If he doesn’t know how you feel, you can’t blame him for going for someone else. You have to do a little bit of the legwork too.”

“Yeah, well, so does he. I’m not about to get shot down, thank you very much. I already know he hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you. Jesus, Richie, you two have been friends like, forever. Why d’you think he stuck around if he hates you?”

“I don’t know. Bill’s his best friend, and Bill hangs out with me, I guess. And Eddie, too. They couldn’t get rid of me, so they put up with me.”

“ _Bullshit._ Bill, Stan and Eddie love the shit out of you. Me, Mike and Ben too.” Bev glared fiercely at Richie.

“Thanks, Bev,” Richie said weakly.

“Yeah, you’re welcome, trashmouth.”

“I’m still not telling Stan, though.”

Bev sighed. “Richie -”

“And neither are you. _Promise me,_ Beverly.”

“Against my better judgement...fine. I promise.”

As he peddled home, Richie reflected that Beverly was not the type to give up easily once she’d latched onto something. And it was that vaguely disquieting thought that sent him to sleep that night with the sound of his mother’s drunken stumbling downstairs as a lullaby.


	2. Dancing With Myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't checked to see if any of the pop culture references in this chapter make sense so *shrug emoji*  
> thanks to everyone who left kudos, commented, bookmarked etc. you guys are the best!!! you make me want to write so much more so thank you  
> this chapter is, like, twice the length of the last one so enjoy! i'll try and update again tomorrow, idk if i'm gonna write one more chapter or two, we'll see

Richie banged down the stairs, slamming his feet as hard as he could on the creaky wooden steps. The noise echoed through the house, but no-one yelled at him, no heads poked out of doors to tell him to shut up. Just like always. His mom was probably sleeping off another hangover, his dad God knows where.

He rifled through the fridge but found nothing but a half-empty bottle of ketchup, a wilting bag of salad and a few slices of mouldy bread. Sighing, he closed the door, mentally making plans to scrounge something off the other Losers. They’d made plans to hang out, maybe catch a movie. Surely one of them would offer to buy popcorn for the others. And if no-one did, hey, it wouldn’t be the first time Richie had gone hungry.

He caught up with the others at the park, sprawled over a picnic table with their bikes abandoned on the grass, jackets flung aside as the weak autumn sunlight grew stronger, warming cold limbs. Bev quirked her eyebrows at Richie as he rode up, Eddie waved, but Stan just glanced up and continued talking to Mike. Richie felt the fist around his heart clench.

“H-hey Richie. We’re stuck between Batman Returns and Alien 3. W-what d’you think?”

“I dunno, Big Bill. I think maybe we should try getting some Vitamin D on that pale face of yours. One of these days someone’s gonna mistake you for the moon.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “S-seriously.”

“Seriously? Alien 3. Unless the Xenomorph reminds Eddie of his mom too much.”

“Shut up Richie,” Eddie said without much enthusiasm.

Richie’s stomach growled insistently as he sat down between Eddie and Stan. He crossed his arms over it and tried to act natural, but Stan gave him a sideways glance all the same. Richie didn’t look back, not wanting another reminder of the love bites, but his stomach swooped with nerves despite himself.

“Okay, B-Bev wants to see Batman, so do Ben and Eddie. S-Stan and me want to see Alien. R-R-Richie, you still for Alien too?”

“Alien 2? I thought it was Alien 3?”

Mike chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Richie, c’mon man.”

“Seems to me it’s _you_ that can’t make up your mind, Mr Denbrough. Yeah, sure, Alien.”

“M-Mike?”

“Batman for me. Sorry, Bill.”

“Well, boys, you know the rules,” Bev said triumphantly. “Batman wins. We’ll see Alien next week.”

The movie was kinda cheesy, but Richie was sandwiched between Eddie and Stan and so he didn’t really mind. It was fun to whisper in Eddie’s ear about all the gross things people had probably spilled on his seat and make him squirm, and it was even more fun when Stan accidentally brushed Richie’s arm with his or they bumped knees and electricity hummed through Richie’s veins from the point of contact. No popcorn, no food at all, but that was okay. When Richie made jokes about Michael Keaton’s terrible acting, Stan laughed instead of telling him to shut up and watch, and in the dark Richie couldn’t see the hickies.

Spilling out into the afternoon sunshine, kicking at dead leaves and laughing, the Losers went to grab their bikes. Richie grabbed a handful of leaves, sneaked up behind Bill and shoved them down the back of his shirt; Bill yelled and retaliated by throwing another handful in Richie’s face, Stan, Mike and Bev howling with laughter on the sidelines, until the combatants turned on them too and they scattered.Eddie and Ben both sidestepped the carnage carefully, laughing. When they were all thoroughly covered with dirt, leaves and twigs, they began to calm down, faces red and sides aching.

“So where to now?” Ben asked, grinning.

“I have to g-go guys, sorry. My parents need me to h-help with dinner.”

“Yeah, I have to go too,” Mike shrugged. His house was further away from the town centre than any of the other Losers. If he didn’t leave now, it’d be dark before he got back.

“I should get back before my mom freaks out.”

Bev shrugged. “See you guys later. If you can still hang out Ben, I’m down. I don’t really wanna go home yet.”

Ben beamed. “Me neither.”

Richie didn’t much like the idea of third-wheeling Ben and Bev, so he grabbed his bike and made to ride home. Stan caught his arm. Out of the corner of his eye, Richie spotted Beverly shooting him a grin over her shoulder as she and Ben walked away.

“Where are you going?”

“Home, Stanley. You know, that place people go at night to sleep?”

“It’s not that late yet.” Stan shuffled his feet in the drifts of dead leaves. “You could come to mine. If you want. My parents won’t mind.”

Richie threw a hand to his mouth in mock shock. “Meet your parents?” he gasped in a fluttering falsetto. “So soon? Oh, Stanley, darling, we haven’t even kissed yet!”

“Don’t be a dumbass,” Stan replied curtly. Maybe it was the glow of the setting sun, but Richie could have sworn he was blushing. “Come have dinner.”

“I’m okay, Stan. Seriously.”

“Your mom making you something?” Stan glanced up through the curls that had fallen in his face, daring Richie to lie. _You got me there, Stanley._ Richie felt the sick swirl of anxiety, unwilling to admit to the negative, but unwilling to go hungry another night as well, knowing Stan was aware of at least some of the situation anyway. He swallowed.

“Fine. You know I can’t resist the pull of your mom’s kreplach.”

“You know we don’t eat that every night, right?”

Stan’s home was warm and inviting after the cool autumn darkness of the street. Richie swallowed as he walked over the threshold, watching Stan touch a finger to the _mezuzah_ over the door, feeling like a complete outsider. His mom smiled when she saw them standing in the kitchen door.

“Hi, sweetie. Hello Richie. Are you staying for dinner?”

“If you don’t mind, Mrs Uris,” Richie replied sheepishly. She smiled at him, tucking one of her own dark curls behind her ear.

“Of course we don’t. The more the merrier. Stan, why don’t you and Richie go upstairs to hang out. I’ll call you when the food’s ready.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Stan undid his sneakers carefully and placed them by the door. Richie shoved his own off with his toes, but he tried to place them as neatly as Stan did, hyper aware of how clean and warm and tidy Stan’s place was compared to his own. He imagined inviting Stan over for dinner at his house and cringed inwardly.

Richie trailed after Stan, padding up the stairs in his socks. His room looked like it’d been tidied using a spirit rule, every wall covered with bird posters, bookshelves alphabetically organised, blue and red comforter and pillows all arranged carefully. The only room Richie had ever been in that looked cleaner was Eddie’s.

“Christ, Stan, do you sleep in here or is it just a shrine to lost childhood?”

“Just because your room probably looks like a nuclear test site.”

“I’m hurt by that accusation.”

“Maybe if you ever let anyone come by your place I could see for myself,” Stan said quietly, his back to Richie as he set his backpack down by the desk. Richie’s face grew hot.

“What exactly are you accusing me of, Stanley?” He forced his voice to be light and jokey.

“Nothing,” Stan said, turning back to Richie. He gave him a sad half-smile. “Nothing. You okay with meatloaf?”

“You know me, Stan. I’ll eat anything.”

“Yeah, don’t you eat garbage for fun?”

“That was one time, on a dare, and it was you who dared me!”

“No I didn’t. I said ‘Don’t eat the garbage, Richie.’ And you said ‘Don’t tell me what to do, Uris.’ And you ate the garbage.”

“You and I have very different memories of that day. Anyway, it was like one piece of banana, or something.”

“I think it was more than that.” They sat on the edge of the bed, grinning at each other. Richie lost himself in Stan for a little bit, just a second (what harm could a second do?), in his messy dark curls and his cheeks flushed from the transition from the cold street to the warm house, and his hazel eyes sparkling with laughter that was too, too rare and only seemed to come out for Richie. Richie let his gaze slip a little lower, to Stan’s soft lips, to his Adam’s apple and – no. No further. Any further and you’ll see -

“You okay?”

“Huh?” Richie came back to earth with a bump.

“You zoned out on me. It was a little spooky. I’ve never known you so quiet.” Stan studied Richie carefully, and Richie knew that look in his eyes. People got that look whenever they were about to ask if he was _okay, sweetie? Is everything alright at home? Are you sure? Are you really sure you’re okay, Richie?_

“Come on, Stan the Man. I thought you knew how to show a guy a good time.” Richie stood up, suddenly filled with frantic energy. “You got any music?”

“Yeah...” Stan still looked uncertain. Richie was determined to steer the topic away from his home life, however, and nothing was going to deter him. He moved to the neatly stacked tapes on the desk, running his finger along them.

“Let’s see...The Cure, boring. Soft Cell, ancient. The Beatles, boring _and_ ancient. Jesus Christ, Stanley, I knew you were a stiff, but this is...hold on...” He slid a tape from the stack, holding the rest up carefully with one hand. They slipped all the same, and Richie felt rather than saw Stan move to catch them, brushing Richie’s elbow.

“Careful,” he murmured like an afterthought, though he didn’t seem angry.

“Sorry.”

“What did you pick?”

Richie held the tape up for inspection. Stan grinned. “Your favourite.”

Richie couldn’t believe Stan remembered, let alone that he owned the track. He nodded, feeling strangely elated. “Uh huh.”

Stan took the tape from him with long, careful fingers and slipped it into the player. The drums beat for a few seconds, then the famous guitar riff began. Richie felt a grin creep onto his face.

_On the floors of Tokyo_

_Or in London town to go go_

_With the record selection_

_And the mirror's reflection_

_I'm dancing with myself_

_When there's no-one else in sight_

_In the crowded lonely night_

_Well I wait so long for my love vibration_

_And I'm dancing with myself_

 

Stan mouthed the lyrics and Richie felt the tension come away from for the first time in he couldn’t remember how long. His fingers moved along with the guitar of their own volition, and soon both boys were singing along at the top of their lungs, heads bobbing and jumping to the beat of the music, playing air guitar as hard as they could. When the song finished Richie collapsed backwards onto the bed dramatically, and Stan laughed, flopping down beside him.

“I should put together my own band,” Richie announced. Stan turned onto his front to look at him.

“Yeah, you should,” he replied, serious as ever. Richie sniggered.

“Don’t be dumb. My singing sounds like cats having sex in a bag, as you never fail to remind me, and I can’t play any instruments.” Richie thought for a second, staring at the ceiling. “I wish I could play guitar,” he said, the idea plucked from nowhere.

“You should learn.” Stan was eye level with him, head laid on his arms. If Richie turned his head, he could have kissed him. Not that he would.

“I don’t think so. Too much concentration required. Besides, I can’t afford lessons.” Stan was quiet. Richie didn’t dare turn to look at him. He could feel every movement, every breath Stan made as he lay beside him, almost-but-not-quite touching. All the air had gone out of the room, and Richie felt the heat press down on him, suffocating him. The room was too bright, too soft, too warm, and Stan was too real, too present.

Stan appeared in Richie field of vision, holding himself up on his elbows. Looking down at Richie’s face, Stan stared for a moment, and then, ever so carefully, traced his lips with a finger. Richie felt a bolt of lightning shoot through him, his heart pounding in his throat. Neither of them moved, neither of them breathed.

“Stan! Richie! Dinner’s ready!”

They moved away from each other like figures on a TV set suddenly un-paused, scrambling down off the bed.

“Coming, Mom!” Stan ran a hand through his curls, bolting for the door. Richie followed after slowly, still a little dazed. He knew his whole face probably looked like a tomato. Stan’s blushes were way prettier, starting from the hollow of his neck and creeping up his cheeks in a soft rose pink. _Because of you. He’s blushing ‘cause of you._

Dinner was a blur. Richie tried to talk as little as possible to Stan’s smiley mother and stern but kind father, knowing that if he didn’t open his mouth, he was less likely to put his foot in it. Mostly, it was full of food, which helped. Every time he locked eyes with Stan across the table, he felt his face grow hot, and both boys glanced away quickly whenever it happened. Sometimes, Richie would catch a split-second glimpse of that necklace of soft purple marks before Stan pulled his collar up hurriedly, and got a lump in his throat that he suspected had little to do with the food he was inhaling.

Then it was over, and Richie was at the front door, mentally bracing himself for the cold walk home and the even colder reception he would get there. Stan and his parents waited as he pulled his shoes on and grabbed his jacket.

“I’ll bike home with you,” Stan offered quietly, not looking him in the eye. Richie shook his head quickly.

“I’m good.”

“No, Richie,” Stan’s mom cut in. “You can’t ride home in the dark all by yourself. Go on, you boys go together.” It was hard to say no to Stan’s mom. She was not a monster that needed thwarting or avoiding like some of the other Losers’ parents; namely Eddie’s mom, who Richie took a perverse delight in annoying and undermining, if only to get her back for her bullying of Eddie. Richie tried to imagine his own mother smiling at him with the warmth that Stan’s mother was right then, but came up blank.

“Okay, Mrs Uris,” Richie sighed, defeated. “You’re probably right.” He didn’t look at Stan as they headed out the door.

The autumn evening air was frigid, the handlebars of Richie’s bike frozen to the touch. Stan and Richie peddled beside each other over the glistening black tarmac in silence, the only sound the smooth tick of the wheels. Richie resisted the urge to put in more effort and shoot forward away from Stan, trying to take deep breaths. When they reached his house, he slid smoothly into the driveway and jumped off, walking towards the door as quickly as he could. A warm hand on his wrist held him back.

“Richie, wait.”

Richie braced himself, and then turned to face Stan.

“What?”

“I – I’m sorry. For earlier.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Richie said in a falsely light and breezy voice.

“No, no, I mean – if I freaked you out, or -”

“You didn’t freak me out.” Richie let the words hang there. _Easy now. Don’t give the game away._

“Then why – you seem pissed off with me.” A crease appeared between Stan’s brows, and he bit his lip.

“I wasn’t pissed off about that,” Richie half-lied.

“I don’t get it – then why wouldn’t you look at me? What have I done wrong?” Richie had never known Stan to look so innocently confused, and it was ridiculously cute, and infuriating. _What have you done wrong? Seriously?_ Richie bit his own lip and tried to control himself.

“Stan, I couldn’t begin to explain it to you,” Richie replied wearily.

“Try. Please?”

“You can’t honestly – okay, how about -” Richie began, feeling the heat rise to his face along with his anger. All the pain, all the fury that he’d been keeping bottled up inside was finally starting to rise to the surface. “How about the fact that you’re clearly making out with someone else when you’re not putting the moves on me? How does the other guy feel about you taking me up to your room like that, huh?” Richie felt sure there was steam rising as the heat of his face made contact with the cold air. Stan’s confusion was replaced with horror, and his hand rubbed his neck where Richie knew the love bites still were, hidden in the darkness.

“Shit – Richie, is that why you ran away at lunch the other day?” Richie nodded stiffly. “Oh, fuck, it’s – it’s not what it looks like, I swear -”

“Then what is it?” Richie asked, voice cracking a little. _Fucking hell, Tozier, don’t start crying!_

“He’s just some guy I met at temple, he’s not – we’re not -”

“It doesn’t matter.” What he’d told Bev at the Barrens came back into Richie’s mind. Whether it was serious or not didn’t matter. It hurt just the same. Richie forced his face into a sneer, tried to harden his heart as well. "It's not like I'm into you, or anything. I'm not even gay. And if I was, I definitely wouldn't go for you." He wrenched his wrist free from Stan’s limp grasp, ripped the door open and slammed it behind him, not looking back to see Stan's expression, leaving him alone in the frosty light of the lampposts.


	3. Pictures of You

The house was dark, save for the ghostly white flicker of the TV screen in the living room. By its shivering glow, Richie could just make out his mother’s hand, drooping from the couch, a bottle abandoned and leaking its contents onto the carpet. Softly, he scooped it up and took it to the kitchen, setting it down on the counter. The numbers on the microwave gave the time – 8:07. Still no sign of Richie’s dad; his car was absent from the driveway. Whoever he was with tonight, they were keeping him plenty occupied, it seemed. For once, Richie preferred it that way. He wasn’t in the mood for any conversation tonight, even his dad’s pitiful excuse for a father-son chat. Richie slipped back into the living room and switched on a light, bathing the room in a far healthier golden glow that smoothed out the dark edges better than the harsh light of the TV, and switched the set off, so the grating laugh track spilling from it cut out and left the room in blissful silence. His mother slept on. In the warm light, she looked peaceful, the lines of her face smoothed out, like the lively, gentle woman Richie just barely remembered from early childhood. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and instead of fighting them like he had been all this time, Richie let them slide slowly down his face, hot salty water slipping over his lips into his mouth and dripping off his chin. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes fiercely, watching the swirling patterns behind his eyelids. Then he wiped his face roughly on the hem of his shirt, bent to brush a kiss on his sleeping mother’s cheek, inhaling the scent of alcohol, and then made his way upstairs.

Richie’s own room seemed that much colder, smaller and darker now that he had spent the evening in Stan’s room, with his presence warming him. Even the dim glow of his bedside lamp did little to chase the shadows away. Richie closed the curtains and undressed, abandoning his glasses on the dresser and diving under the covers as quickly as he could, feeling suddenly very small, very cold and very alone. His words to Stan outside his house came back to him, and he was gripped by that old fear, the fear that his friends would turn their backs on him, forget him, and he would be abandoned here in this cold dark place forever. He could never look Stan in the eyes again, that much was certain. Richie hadn’t seen his expression after, he’d turned away too quickly, face burning with shame and anger, but he could imagine the hurt, the confusion. Stan’s face swam before Richie’s eyes, replacing the smudged outlines of his room in the dark, but then it changed, from Stan’s hazel eyes swimming with hurt at Richie’s rejection, to something worse. Stan splayed against a wall somewhere, head tilted back, some other guy, taller and broader than Richie, pressing his body on Stan’s. His head at Stan’s neck, his mouth on Stan’s smooth pale skin, Stan’s eyelashes fluttering as his mouth opened, his soft moans…

Richie screwed his eyes shut, mashing the heels of his hands on the closed lids until it hurt, but the image was burned into his brain. He wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight, that was for sure. He sat up, switched the light on, shoved a tape blindly into his cassette player and blasted the music, knowing no-one would care. He sat on his bed with the music beating into his brain, ignoring the ache in his eyes, until the weak dawn light leaked in around his curtains.

A few days earlier, Stan was at his locker, packing his bag to go home, when a shriek from somewhere behind him gave him pause.

“Stan! Wait up!”

Stan half turned and saw a mop of red hair, freckles and bright blue eyes fighting her way against the flood of high school kids pouring down the corridor.

“Hi Bev.”

Beverly made it to Stan’s oasis of calm at his locker and gasped for breath beside him dramatically. “People in this school walk in a very counter-intuitive manner.”

“They sure do.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Evidently.”

“It’s about the hickies.”

Stan gave her his trademark eye-roll. “Please, not this again.”

“Just listen. It’s a guy who gave you them, right?”

Stan side-eyed her suspiciously. “I’m still not telling you his name.”

“Okay, good. Is it serious between you two?”

“Beverly Marsh, are you hitting on me?”

“Stanley Uris, was that an actual joke?” Bev fired back. “I’m not playing, Uris, what’s the deal between you two?”

“The deal is it’s none of your business.”

“Fine, don’t tell me. At least listen to this – if it isn’t serious, you should hang out with Richie on Saturday.”

“Beverly, I hang out with Richie every day.”

“No, just the two of you. You need to talk to him. In private.”

Suspicion pricked in the back of Stan’s mind. “Enough with the cryptic bullshit, Marsh. Say what you mean.” Realisation began to dawn on him, though the full picture was not yet clear. “Wait...does this have something to do with how weird Richie was acting yesterday at lunch?”

Bev shook her head violently. “Nope. I’m not saying anything more.”

“Tell me what’s going on, Bev!” Stan turned fully to look the blushing red-head in the eyes.

“No! I can’t!” she squeaked in protest, clearly enjoying herself. God, Stan loved that girl, but _sometimes_ …

Ben came up behind Bev, rescuing her from Stan’s wrath just in time. “Hi Stan. You ready to go, Bev?”

“Yup.” Bev turned to leave.

“Beverly Marsh, don’t you dare leave me hanging like this!”

“I’m sorry!” Bev called over her shoulder as she and Ben walked away. “I promised not to tell!”

Stan stared after her, utterly mystified. Well, at the very least, talking to Richie in private wasn’t such a bad idea. His friend had been acting weird since long before the previous lunchtime, and Stan, ever observant, hadn’t failed to notice Richie looking at him strangely for a long time. When they were younger, Stan had brushed it off, unaware of what it could have meant, but as they got older Stan found himself looking differently at Richie too. Sometimes, when Richie was being especially infuriating, with that mix of irritatingly gross humour and endearing ridiculousness that was his trademark, Stan would catch himself imagining planting a kiss on his lips to get him to shut up instead of just sighing and rolling his eyes. Just to see what Richie would do, to enjoy his shock and horror, maybe get some blissful silence for a bit, you see. Not because Stan wanted to kiss Richie. That was definitely not it. Not that Stan didn’t like guys – but Richie? Trashmouth Tozier? No way. Never.

Stan sighed and closed his locker. _You’re a goddamn liar, Uris._

Now, Stan lay on his bed, still fully-clothed, staring at the ceiling, the glow of his room still bright even at 12:18 at night. Usually, he’d have long since fallen asleep, but with Richie’s parting words still ringing in his ears, he couldn’t even try to drop off. He listened to his parents move around the house, knowing any second that one of them would poke their head round the door and scold him for staying up late, but he couldn’t help it. How could he have been so _stupid?_ Of course, Richie was into him. He’d always really known that. Why hadn’t he realised how seeing those marks on his neck, and Eddie and Bev’s teasing, would hurt Richie? Granted, Stan had never been the best at emotional stuff – Bill was always the one who knew what to say, or Eddie, who constantly worried about his friends’ well-being anyway – but he had at least counted himself as more emotionally intuitive than _Richie,_ who Stan had long maintained had the emotional sensitivity of a particularly reticent teaspoon. The look on Richie’s face, the crack in his voice and the shine in his eyes as he’d yelled at Stan, put a dagger right through his heart. The image of him rushing off at lunch that day kept replaying over and over in his head, the cheeky grin on his face, the joke, the kiss. All a cover up for how he really felt. Had he meant what he said about not being gay? Or was it just posturing, to cover up the hurt? With Richie, it was hard to tell, but whatever the case, Stan could see he’d messed things up between them big time. Stupid, stupid, _stupid._

“Stanley?”

Stan sat up a little as his father opened his bedroom door.

“Dad. I’m sorry, I’ll go to sleep -”

“It’s fine.” His father sat down on the bed next to him. “Are you okay, son?”

Stan eyed his father warily. He knew his dad loved him, but it was unlike him to ask such a question, and especially unlike him not to tell Stan off for staying up late.

“I – I’m fine,” Stan lied. His father sighed and brushed a curl off Stan’s forehead with a light and unexpectedly affection touch. Stan stared at him, wide-eyed.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” Stan blushed, embarrassed by the cheesy line, but not unhappy at the sentiment behind it.

“Yes, Dad. I know.”

“Okay. Just as long as...” Stan’s father sighed again and pushed his own floppy dark hair back. “You know I love you, Stan. Your mother and I, we both...no matter what, we love you.”

Stan sensed the meaning behind the words all of a sudden, and tensed, heart racing, mouth dry. “I know that, Dad.”

“Stanley...I know you’re not ready to talk about this yet. But just know...” His father seemed to have difficulty finding his words, a phenomenon Stan had never seen before. “Whatever you feel, for – it doesn’t matter. You know what the Torah says, but part of our duty is to question what...never mind. We’ll talk about this later, when you’re ready.” He gave Stan’s hand a brief squeeze and got up. When he reached the door, he turned. “Get changed and turn this light off. You need your sleep.” And with that, he left Stan feeling vaguely stunned, alone in his room.

The next morning, Stan met the other Losers at Bill’s house, as they did every Sunday. Rain was pouring from the iron grey sky and there was no hope of doing anything outside, so they piled into Bill’s room with drinks and snacks and the vague idea of watching TV, though it wouldn’t be long before they stopped paying attention to the flicker of the screen and started chatting among themselves. Stan glanced around, scanning his friends’ faces as Bill headed to the kitchen to scrounge up some food, and then followed him in.

“Did Richie say he was coming today?”

Bill shrugged. “He hasn’t c-called. Why?”

Stan stuck his hands deep in his pockets and looked at the floor. “No reason.”

“You two have been acting really w-w-weird lately, you know that? I wish you’d tell me w-w-why.” Bill looked at Stan from under his flop of light brown hair with a worried expression in his baby blue eyes. Stan sighed.

“It’s complicated. It’ll be fine, really.” Bill seemed satisfied with that, but Stan wasn’t so sure. The house seemed too quiet and empty without Richie. All day, Stan kept half-expecting him to barge in, loudly announcing his presence by accusing them of being a bunch of virgins and then proceeding to eat all of Bill’s food, but he never did. Stan never thought he’d miss the trashmouth, but the hollow ache in his chest told him otherwise. The shadows grew longer, the time without Richie stretched on, and soon it was time for the Losers to go their separate ways once again. Usually, Stan would ride home with Eddie, who lived in the same direction as Stan from Bill’s house, but today Stan swung round to take a different fork in the road.

“Where are you going?” Eddie asked, breathless from peddling, pulling up next to Stan.

“I’m gonna swing by Richie’s, see if he’s okay.”

“Good idea, I’ll come too,” Eddie said decisively. Stan frowned, secretly hoping to get Richie alone again.

“Uh, I’m not sure that’s the best idea. What if he’s sick? You don’t want to catch something, your mom will go nuclear,” Stan reasoned. Eddie paled and nodded.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Tell Richie we missed him today, will you?” Eddie swung his bike round to leave. Stan nodded.

“Will do. See ya.”

“See ya, Stan.”

Stan was too sensible to be spooked by a few dead trees on a dark autumn night, but still, he peddled as fast as he could to Richie’s house, glancing up every so often at the clawed and snarled branches hidden above him in the shadows. The night was dark, clouds covering the moon, and all daylight had long since fled as Stan neared Richie’s house; every shadow outside of the pools of golden light from the street-lamps moved and shivered like some dark creature. Stan slowed as he turned onto Richie's street, coasting down. He was trying to remember which house was Richie’s when a shape detached itself from the shadows in an alleyway and stepped into the lamplight, coalescing into the form of Henry Bowers. Stan swallowed dryly and began to peddle again, but he was too slow and Henry stepped in front of his bike and grabbed the handlebars before he could get away.

“Hey, Uris. Where’re you off to in such a rush?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> done with this one in record time! this is not the last chapter, never fear, i just thought i'd leave it on a nice little cliff-hanger for you guys :) hope you enjoyed this one!


	4. Six Different Ways

Richie stayed in his room all day, ignoring at first the growls of his stomach and then the sharp pains of hunger, watching the shadows on the walls shorten and then lengthen again. His father came home at about 9:45 that morning, and Richie listened as the car engine cut out and the door slammed. About twenty minutes later, he was gone again, the roar of the engine floating in through the half open window. Richie sighed and turned on the TV, desperate to fill the silence. He zoned out as he watched, the shapes and sounds becoming a meaningless blur.

The room was dark again, illuminated only by the flickering rainbow of the TV, when Richie was tugged back into reality by shouts and curses from down the street, echoing in through the window as clear as if they were in the room. He paid them no mind until he recognised the cadence of one voice and sat bolt upright as if electrocuted.

“Fuck _off,_ Bowers!” Stan’s voice had that little crack in it he got when he was really pissed off...or really scared. Richie scrambled off the bed and stuck his head out the window. In the street below, half-in, half-out of the pool of bright lamplight, Henry Bowers had Stan by the collar. Even from his window, Richie could see Stan was pretending to be brave, glaring at Bowers, but his lips were trembling, his lower lip already sporting a fine cut that spurted blood down his chin. Richie’s stomach lurched as Bowers drew back a sharp fist and smashed Stan once again in his perfect face.

The second blow had Stan seeing stars. He was so close to Bowers, he could smell the alcohol on his breath, which he guessed explained the random beating he was apparently going to receive. Blood sprayed from his probably broken nose and filled his mouth; he tried to spit it out, but only succeeded in dribbling it down his chin and onto his shirt. _Mom’s gonna kill me,_ he thought hysterically. Trying to fight back was going to be impossible – Bowers was almost a grown man, a head taller than Stan and at least twice his weight. He let Stan drop to the ground and he felt his jeans tear at the knee and a sharp stab of pain, but barely had time to register it before a foot connected with his ribs and he curled up sharply, coughing and choking. His head was spinning with the pain, and he prayed he wouldn’t black out. At least if he was conscious he had chance of fighting back, however slim. He looked up at the outline of Bowers through streaming eyes, registering his snarl. As his friends had slowly moved away from Derry after graduation, he’d become if possible even more dangerous, bored and fractious and desperate for something to control, something to hurt. This was not the first time one of the Losers had run afoul of his random violence, but through the pain Stan dimly remembered how he’d moved from that alley as if he’d been waiting for Stan to come by. As if he’d been following him.

“W-why?” Stan managed to get out through the pain. Henry just laughed.

“Why d’you think, Uris? Did you really think you’d gotten away with it? That no-one saw you?” He crouched down and Stan cringed away as he tugged at the collar of his shirt, grinning cruelly. “Looks like your little boyfriend’s already given you some bruises, huh? You know, Uris, if I had to peg one of you little freaks for a queer, it would be Kaspbrak – but I guess you all hang out being gay together.” Stan’s fear burned away and was replaced with anger in an instant. _That’s_ what this was about? Bowers had tracked him down all this way because he’d seen him with Michael? God, how _pathetic._ Anger gave him a savage burst of energy, and he spat the remaining blood from his mouth with more venom now, succeeding in hitting Bowers in the face. He growled – actually _growled –_ and straightened up, drawing back his foot to kick Stan again -

And then something exploded behind him. Stan wrapped his arms around his head as shards of glass rained down on him. Bowers howled and put a hand to his head, drawing it away sticky with blood. He half-turned, and Stan saw a slender, bespectacled figure standing behind him holding a broken vodka bottle.

“Shit,” Richie said. “Is this guy the Terminator or something?”

“Tozier,” Bowers slurred. “You’re fucking dead.”

“Yup,” said Richie, white-faced. “Seems that way.” He shot a shaky grin at Stan. “Never fear, my princess. Sir Richie’s got you covered.” Bowers lurched towards him, slowed by the copiously bleeding head wound, but Richie held the broken bottle out in front of him like a sword, with skinny, trembling arms. “Easy there, Henrykins,” he cautioned, voice wobbling.“You gotta be careful around broken glass, didn’t your mommy teach you? Otherwise accidents happen.”

Bowers sized up the situation, swaying on the spot. Stan could practically see the cogs working in his thick head. “Yeah, accidents do happen,” he said finally. “Watch your back, trashmouth, or one day an accident’s gonna happen to you. You and the rest of your fag friends.” With that, he stumbled back the way Stan had come. Richie waited until he had almost disappeared before yelling, “Yeah! And stay out!” down the road at his retreating back. Then he let the bottle drop from his aching, sweat-soaked fingers, sidestepped the shattered glass, and lurched down to Stan’s side.

“ _Stan,”_ he murmured, horrified. “Are you okay? Damn, I should pay more attention when Eddie wanks on about his first aid...come on, Stan, talk to me...”

“You’re an idiot,” Stan groaned. Richie laughed with relief.

“Christ, Stanley, I thought you were clocking out on for good me there.” He helped Stan sit up. “Shit, you’re a mess.” He examined the cut at his knee. Stan hadn’t realised at the time, but he must have sliced it open on a broken beer bottle that was lying on the ground. A flap of skin lifted away and flooded blood when Richie touched it, and Stan started feeling faint again. He shook his head like a wet dog to try and clear his head.

“Thanks for saving me – even though it was probably the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, and that’s saying a lot – thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You might just bleed out from that knee, and I think you may have internal bleeding from the kicking Bowers gave you. Either way, you’re gonna have some wicked bruises. It’s actually a good job Eddie’s not here, he’d probably swoon and then I’d have to rescue both you little ladies -” He continued rambling like that as he helped Stan to his feet and held him up as he limped the last few feet to Richie’s house. The door slamming reverberated through the empty house, and Stan stole a glance at Richie, who seemed determined to once again avoid eye contact with him.

“Will your mom mind?”

“Nope. She’s asleep upstairs – I think. Tell you the truth, I haven’t exactly been keeping track of her today.” Richie helped Stan to the couch, and once he was safely deposited there, he went on the hunt for some bandages. Stan tried not to glance around the room too much, sensing Richie’s embarrassment at the state of his house. He returned quickly, with a towel filled with ice-cubes for Stan’s broken nose in one hand and a bag of frozen peas in the other.

“Here, put that on your side,” he said, holding out the peas. Stan took them and jammed them onto the ache in his ribs, groaning with relief. Richie held out the towel cautiously and when Stan didn’t move away, held it up to his nose. The ice was blessedly cool, numbing the throbbing pain. They sat like that for a few seconds, then Richie gently guided Stan’s hand up to the ice-cubes and held it there, moving to the kitchen. “We’ve gotta deal with that knee,” he explained over his shoulder. “I think you’re gonna need stitches, but like I said, I’m not Eddie, so...”

“I can’t go to the emergency room,” Stan said thickly. “My parents will have a collective aneurysm.”

“Stan, don’t be stupid!” Richie teased in his best impression of Eddie. Stan could see him rifling through drawers and cupboards through the kitchen divider. “What if it gets infected and your whole leg falls off! What if it spreads into your bloodstream and you get turned into a shambling, rotting zombie! You know, to be safe, we should probably just chop off your whole leg right now -”

“Okay, thank you, Doctor Kaspbrak, that’s enough,” Stan grinned despite himself.

“Seriously though, I don’t think I should be doing this with a bottle of scotch and my mom’s old sewing kit. Knowing me, it probably _would_ get infected.” He walked back into the living room holding a small red box with a peeling and faded white cross on the front. “You’re lucky we’ve got this much. Honestly, it’s probably empty anyway.”

Stan watched Richie carefully as he knelt by his side and opened the first aid kit with a snap, biting his lip as he thought over what to do next. How had Stan never noticed how tall he’d gotten? They had all shot up in height over the years, but Stan could have sworn that as he stood there with the broken bottle, highlighted by the street-lights, Richie looked almost as tall as Henry Bowers. Not as strong, though. However much he grew, Richie still had the upper body mass of overcooked spaghetti. Richie’s fingers were cold on Stan’s knee as he carefully peeled back the tattered, blood-soaked denim and cleaned away the blood with an antiseptic wipe that sent pain stinging through Stan’s nerves. He twitched and Richie stopped, looking up and blinking hugely magnified brown eyes. “Sorry, did I hurt you?” he asked, voice full of a gentle, genuine concern Stan didn’t think he’d ever heard before. He swallowed thickly.

“Nope, it’s fine.”

As Richie continued to clean the wound, Stan moved the ice-cubes from his nose to his swollen lower lip, easing the hot throb. He watched as Richie carefully tore strips of tape and pinned the flap of sliced skin back into place, as he’d no doubt watched Eddie do before sometime. He then secured a cotton patch over the wound with more tape, anxiously watching the blood soak it almost immediately. “That’ll have to do for now,” he murmured almost to himself. “Maybe we should call Eddie...”

“Later,” Stan acquiesced. “I need to talk to you first.”

Richie didn’t look at him, busying himself with putting the supplies back in the first aid kit. “Is that why you were here in the first place? I was wondering,” he asked softly.

“Yeah...” Richie walked back into the kitchen and Stan suddenly realised that getting him to sit down, look him in the eye and talk to him would be like pulling teeth. Richie was world class at avoiding conversations he didn’t want to have, or diffusing them with jokes. But not tonight. If he was going to almost get killed coming down here, Stan was determined to get what he came for. “I think I need to explain some things.”

“You don’t have explain yourself to me, Stanley. What goes on in your bedroom is between you and...well, I was gonna say your rabbi, but that’s your dad, so...”

“ _Richie._ Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up.” Richie stopped clattering around the kitchen and poked his head back round the door.

“Okay, jeez. I did just save your life, you know. Damsels are supposed to kiss their brave heroes, not cuss them out.” Richie seemed to realise what he’d just implied and flushed a little, the tips of his ears glowing. He sat down on the couch as far away as he could get from Stan.

“Well, uh, I guess first I wanted to say sorry,” Stan started slowly, his own face growing hot. Why was this so difficult? It was only Richie, trashmouth-gross-infuriating-immature Richie that Stan had known as long as he could remember, who’d irritated and amused him as long as he could remember, who’d made him laugh so hard he cried when no-one else could, who’d protected him from bullies with that loud, beautiful mouth of his, who was now sitting opposite him with that mouth silent for once and his dark eyes huge and unreadable and his dark hair all messy and his cheeks flushed… “For last night. I didn’t think...it was just something I did without thinking, and I shouldn’t have.”

“It’s...okay.” Richie’s face glowed in the dim light. “I didn’t mind. I...I liked it.” His voice had grown so soft Stan could barely hear it. He let the ice-cubes down onto the floor, swallowed dryly, as Richie continued. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I was just upset – you confused me, is all. I never thought you felt... _that_...for me. I thought you were with someone else. Someone...better.” Richie dropped his gaze to the floor. How had he never realised how fascinating the carpet pattern was in this room? Seriously, it was mesmerising.

Stan cleared his throat. “About that. I should have told you when Eddie pointed it out that lunchtime.” _I should have ran after you then, told you then, kissed you then. Everything would have been so much easier._ “His name’s Michael. He goes to my synagogue...we just made out a couple times, that’s all. Bowers must have spotted us, that’s why he went for me. I just...I wanted to try it.” His face was in flames. “All the rest of you have been kissed but me. I’m seventeen in two weeks, and...I just...” He trailed off, mortified that he’d actually said it out loud. This was the point Richie would burst out laughing, make some crude joke at Stan’s expense. He didn’t. He just sat there, at the other end of the couch, staring at Stan with his lips slightly parted.

“Okay, good. Cool. It’s not serious. That’s – that’s – fine, okay. Cool,” Richie croaked. _Oh God, shut up. Close your mouth. For once in your life, shut your goddamn mouth!_ Stan cracked a weak, shallow smile, trying not to split his lip any further.

“So you’re, er...you’re gay, then?” Richie’s mouth asked without his brain’s permission. _Who asks that? What’s wrong with you, Tozier?_

Stan’s face fell a little. “I guess I’ve never said it...y’know, out loud,” he admitted softly.

“Then...say it to me.” Richie grinned, trying to encourage him. “I’m happy to be your first,” he smirked, hoping to elicit a smile or even just a _shut up, trashmouth,_ but Stan just nodded shakily.

“Okay. Here goes. Uh… Wow, this feels stupid,” he laughed. Richie giggled too, and Stan found himself relaxing a little. “Uh...I’m gay.”

They were silent for a few seconds, the words hanging in the air. Then realisation seemed to dawn on Richie and his face split into a broad grin, laughter bubbling up from inside him.

“Hi gay,” he gasped, laughter choking him, “I’m Richie.”

Stan groaned, but began to laugh despite himself, moving towards Richie and shoving him, wincing at the pain in his ribs.

“Oh, I hate you,” he gasped between bursts of laughter. “God, I hate you, Richie Tozier.” Still shaking with laughter, he pushed Richie down playfully.

Richie laughed in his arms, burying his head in his shoulder, murmuring “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but Jesus Christ, I couldn’t…I couldn’t resist, I just...” The rest of his sentence dissolved into giggles. His arms were wrapped around Stan, Stan’s arms curving under his back and holding him close. He could feel Richie’s hot breath on his ear, his hair tickling his chin, his glasses digging painfully into his neck, the warmth of his torso pressed against Stan’s. Their legs were tangled together, and as they slowly slipped into silence, Stan became hyper-aware of Richie’s right leg wedged between Stan’s thighs.

“Stanley, you’re crushing me,” Richie voice came softly in Stan’s ear. He pushed himself up on his arms.

“Sorry.” Richie’s face was all Stan could see – huge dark chocolate eyes and long lashes framed by his wonky, coke-bottle glasses; soft pink lips and the very faintest of freckles dusting his cheeks, flushed pink from laughter. A smile twitched around the corners of those lips, that achingly familiar, teasing smile.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Richie quipped.

“This is actually your fault.”

“How’s that? You’re the one who went biking right into Bowers like fucking Rambo. I was just in my room, minding my own business, and all of a sudden I’ve got to rescue this fucking gangly gay with hair like an electrocuted pan-scourer from committing suicide-by-ingrate.”

“Oh my God, shut the fuck up,” Stan said softly, voice full of wonder. Without bidding, his hand was stroking Richie’s face.

“Make me,” Richie said, equally softly. So Stan did.

Stan’s mouth tasted like blood and salt and Richie never wanted to taste anything else ever again. He could feel Stan’s tongue shyly slipping into his mouth and Richie’s eyes closed of their own accord, so the world shrank – to warm and wet and soft and Stan’s curls under his fingers and his body pressed tight against Richie’s. Richie had no idea what he was doing, his mind was blank, thoughts for once not whirring around his head at light-speed, reduced to how unfathomably soft Stan’s lips were, how warm his body was, so when he sucked Stan’s bottom lip into his mouth he barely even registered what he was doing. Stan made a sharp noise in the back of his throat and pulled away, and suddenly Richie was aware of the cool air between their bodies and the loss of Stan’s mouth and his hair and his arms; he sat up, disorientated.

“Shit, did I hurt you?”

“I’m fine.” Stan had his hand to his bleeding lip. “Maybe we should try this again later when I’m not bleeding out on your couch.”

That made Richie’s head spin more if possible. “There’s a _later_?”

Stan smiled shyly. “Do you want there to be?”

Richie nodded dumbly, for once, lost for words.

Eddie was not pleased to be woken at 11:58 on a Sunday night by a phone call from Richie, of all people. However, when he saw the state Stan was in when he met them outside his house a few minutes later, he immediately ushered them both inside. “We have to be quiet. If my mom wakes up, we’re dead.”

Sitting at the table in Eddie’s bright, clinically clean kitchen, watching Eddie carefully sew Stan’s knee back onto his leg, Richie couldn’t help but grin. Eddie saw and gave him a suspicious glance out of the corner of his eye. “How’d he get like this, anyway? What were you even doing together at fucking midnight on a Sunday?”

“Oh, slaying an ogre, kissing a princess, the usual,” Richie answered airily. “All in a night’s work for Sir Richie. _Knight’s_ work? Geddit?” Eddie just rolled his eyes, but for once instead of doing the same, Stan just smiled at Richie. Under the table, Stan’s hand found Richie’s and held it tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, that's it guys. i did think about spinning it out a little longer since it seems to be so popular, but it kind of wound itself up naturally. i hope you're happy with how things turned out! i'm incredibly grateful for all the feedback, kudos, etc. that this got, i never expected it to even get this level of attention, so thank you. don't worry - i won't disappear for good, i have plenty of fic ideas to get through including more stozier. i'm demogorgns on tumblr if you want to send fic requests or just have a chat! thanks again for reading, and hopefully i'll see you all again on my next fic!


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